The Sentimental Advantage
by Petrichor-Daydream
Summary: "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." This is what Sherlock has always believed, and no one had managed to convince him otherwise. And then along came a certain ex-army doctor named John Watson...


The door to the flat swung open and thwacked against the wall loud enough to startle Mrs. Hudson downstairs, and in stumbled a very disgruntled and angry looking John Watson.

He very nearly tripped over the hardwood floors as he was roughly ushered into the dimly lit space via a thin hand splaying out between his shoulder blades and shoving him inside, and by the time he managed to compose himself, the door was viciously slammed shut. The very sound resonated throughout the flat and made a sense of dread slither up his spine. The icy, imperceptibly colored eyes now aflame with a foreign rage that glared fiercely at him, almost through him, just made the dismay all that stronger. He'd never seen Sherlock this angry, and he didn't even know what he had done!

Just moments ago, they'd been walking down the street, trying to make conversation. It wasn't going all that well; John had no idea what to ask the consulting detective, if he should ask about what he had been doing, who he had been associating himself with for the past three years, because he wasn't totally sure if he wanted to know. Talking about Mary was out of the question, because every time her very _name_ managed to worm its way into the conversation, a scowl would briefly twitch itself onto Sherlock's handsome face, and the hands clenched behind his back would clench just a little tighter. Plus, John hadn't really wanted to think about his fiancé ever since the brunette came back. She had become almost an afterthought lately. Whenever Sherlock would tell him they were going to solve a case, which had been a rather sparse occurrence as of late, seeing as how Lestrade was very wary about having a previously dead and wanted man working a murder case, he would flit off to join him without hesitance, as he always did. It was only when Mary would text him, _Love, where did you go?_ that he even remembered he couldn't just up and leave anymore, that he would worry her if he did so.

For whatever reason, that irritated him.

But anyway. He couldn't for the life of him recall anything he had said that would upset the sociopath to this extent, because he had hardly been saying a bloody thing! John hadn't been paying attention to where they were walking, as his attention had been sternly centered on the cracking gray pavement, but apparently Sherlock had been leading him towards 221B. He only noticed their location when his upper arm was gripped none too gently, he was shoved through the opened door, and bustled up the stairs.

"How _dare_ you do this to me," Sherlock growled, eyes mercifully averted from the blond male. He was unknotting his scarf from around his neck rather aggressively now, and his coat had already been removed and placed on the hook. John swallowed nervously at the unfamiliar fury tainting his friend's baritone voice. He cleared his throat quietly and said, "Um, do _what_ to you, exactly?"

"Don't be an even bigger idiot, John; you know bloody well what you've done."

The doctor's eye ticked. Could he go a _day_ without insulting his intelligence? _Not everybody can be an infuriatingly brilliant git like you,_ John thought with a mixture of bitterness and amusement.

"Firstly," he snapped, hostility dripping into his tone now, as well, "I'm not an idiot, you arrogant sod. Secondly, you don't say a damn word the entire time I'm trying to make things less awkward between us, because I can't bloody stand that, and then you drag me back into my old flat without so much as a warning, and then start shouting at me that I've done something to you?" He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. Whilst forgetting how unbelievably amazing his former flatmate could be, he had also forgotten what an absolute pain in the arse he was. Why had he ever put up with him again?

Oh. Right.

He had been in love with this annoyingly brilliant man before he decided to leap off a building, and then for another painful two years before he met Mary and decided to move on with his life.

John hated to think about those two years after the fall. He would either toss and turn through the night because of nightmares-Sherlock suspended in the air, seemingly descending in slow motion, and John was always running to catch him, and just as it appeared he would be able to and prevent such a horrific loss, time would suddenly speed up again and he would smack down on the pavement, blood splattering onto the blogger's jumper-and wake up crying in the middle of the night; or he would manage to sleep a full night, wake up, go about his daily routine, and just as he was making breakfast, the realization would hit him like a cinderblock to the stomach that Sherlock was _dead and never ever coming back,_ and he would break down in tears right there on the kitchen floor. He didn't eat much those days. He lost a lot of weight, no matter how much Mrs. Hudson would try to coerce him into having a full meal. He would just pick at the food dejectedly, tormenting himself with the ways he could've prevented his best friend' s suicide, and coming up with a billion different methods. He blamed himself. For a long, long time he couldn't stand the sight of the elder Holmes brother, not because John was still upset about him practically handing Sherlock over to Moriarty on a silver platter-which he truly was but didn't have the energy to muster up that kind of resentment towards anyone-but because Mycroft reminded him too much of his "deceased" best friend.

It was funny-together, they gave the impression of being polar opposites, never agreeing on a single thing, forever locked in a dispute. But alone, they were startlingly similar. Same maddeningly intrusive habits, same show-offish tendencies, same cold and calculating demeanor; and, surprisingly, they shared an addiction to nicotine. It was almost like being around a taller, older, umbrella-equipped Sherlock without the potentially life-threatening adventures.

Mary had brought him out of his depression successfully, but she could never quite fill the hole in his heart that his younger friend had left. She was missing something, something vital, something exciting and dangerous and darkly enticing, but he could never tell her that. He accepted the fact that there could never be another Sherlock, and he should just move on and be happy with this new woman rather than wallow in his painful despair any longer.

While John had been deeply immersed in his slightly melancholy musings, Sherlock had been quietly, stealthily inching closer, until his hot breath tickled John's hairline and he had to look up. He stared deeply at those indiscernible eyes, still alight with wrath, but now intermingled with something…else. Something softer. Their proximity along with that oddly tender emotion sparkling in those multicolored orbs made the older man's heart flutter ever so slightly in his chest. "Must I spell everything out for you, John?"

"If you insist on being vague and assume I always know what you're talking about, yes."

"Very well." Sherlock gave the shorter man a quick onceover before he fell into his explanation.

"I've never, even been sentimental towards anybody in my life. I've always been taught it's a disadvantage, that it hinders your logical thinking and turns even great men, such as myself, into irrational morons. So, I've kept myself distant and unattached from ordinary people, because it was just easier that way. My life was simple-I had no other lives but my own to worry about, didn't have to consider someone elses' feelings if I wanted to do something, because I didn't have anybody I cared about that deeply." The dark-haired man took a step closer, and John took a step back. His calves bumped into the side of his chair. Well, his old chair.

"And then you came 'round and changed everything."

The light-haired male swallowed again and leaned his hand on his chair.

"You…intrigued me. You showed loyalty and compassion towards a person you had barely met by shooting, and consequently killing, the man who threatened their life. I felt something very peculiar that day, and for the first time in my life, I couldn't pinpoint the exact emotion. I was fascinated, not just by that, but by _you._ That night was the catalyst for all these strange things I began to feel towards you."

"S-Strange things?" John stammered, and his voice was suddenly much smaller than he had ever recalled.

Sherlock nodded subtly. "I realized you were different from all those ordinary people. Instead of being offended by my deductions, you've been thoroughly amazed with each and every one. You chinned the Chief Superintendent because he was slandering my name; you defended me, because you thought I needed to be defended. Nobody, not even my brother, has ever done that for me. You were willing to get blown away by Moriarty's snipers so I could run away. No matter how much of an, "annoying dick", as you so eloquently put it, I was to you, you were never inclined to just up and leave, to never return back. You could've lived a perfectly normal, sane, safe, dreadfully boring life without me, but you chose to stand by my side." One side of his mouth quirked up into a little half smile then. "You even got jealous when The Woman decided to cozy up to me."

John felt the familiar stirring of envy and hate at the mention of _her_ name, but opened his mouth to preach the contrary. Sherlock spoke again before he could even utter a sound.

"Don't try to lie and claim that you weren't, it was grotesquely obvious you detested her flirting with me. Even moreso when you went back to happily making tea and writing your blog after she was out of the picture. I think it's rather…nice, actually. But anyway. Throughout our friendship, I've always felt something…deeper. I suddenly started feeling like I needed to protect you, needed to make sure you were alright; just plain _needed you._ I started forgetting what it was like to not have you by my side." The detective placed a cool palm on John's cheek and thoughtfully, almost reverently, ran his thumb over his cheekbone. "Do you get what I'm trying to tell you now, or are you going to force me to come out and say it?"

"Which do you think?" the good doctor retaliated bemusedly, fingers moving of their own accord and curling around a lithe, black clad hip.

Sherlock smiled, actually smiled, this time. He leaned his face a bit closer, pressed up a bit more against John, and cradled his other cheek with another hand. "Well, Doctor Watson…I do believe I've fallen in love with you."

That was all the incentive John needed to ensnare his fingers in that tantalizingly soft looking mop of dark curls and yank Sherlock's head down, effectively pinning their lips together. He nearly shuddered. The feeling of the brunette's soft, pliant mouth fastened onto his was so good it was obscene. The taller man was obviously inexperienced at this, which made the experience all the more pleasurable.

John would get to be the one to guide Sherlock through this, to give him some knowledge in this otherwise extraneous concept. He relished in knowing more than the brilliant man, for once. He shivered when those chill fingers grazed down his face, dragged down his neck, smoothed over his shoulders, pulled down his arms and finally settled around his waist. Slender, comforting arms slid caringly around his midsection, and it was almost like they belonged there. The blond took this opportunity to reach down and rub the pad of his thumb across a sharp cheekbone, just as he'd fantasized doing countless times. He carefully ran his tongue over Sherlock's plump bottom lip, asking for entrance, which he was hesitantly granted.

Both men groaned marginally when their slick appendages made contact.

Sherlock tasted of Earl Grey tea and the biscuits he'd been forced to eat, and it was a rather heady but delicious flavor. His scent wafted up into John's nose-soap, cologne, chemicals and cinnamon. It was deliciously dizzying. They just stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity, savoring the other's taste, wrapped around each other, releasing every single pent-up emotion they'd had for years, into that one kiss. When they broke for air, John cracked his eyes open a slit. Sherlock's cheeks were flushed, his hair disheveled, lips kissed swollen and red, eyes hooded and darkened with lust. He looked delectable, and John would've leaned in for another kiss, but he had to say something first.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"How…how long?"

"How long what?"

"How long have you…loved me?" He expected it to sound abnormal, but it rolled off his tongue with ease, and he found that he quite liked the way those piercing, iridescent eyes shimmered with delight when he mentioned it.

"Oh. I don't know, exactly. Sometime after the cabbie, definitely before the building." He placed a chaste kiss on John's forehead. "But I've never stopped, as if that weren't already obvious."

"Is that why you were acting like such a child? You were pissed that you fell in love with me?"

"No. I was upset and…scared that you could make me feel that strongly. The way I handled myself was, um…not good?"

He looked down into the army doctor's dark blue eyes and grinned, almost sheepishly. The latter returned his smile and pecked his nose. "Bit not good."

Sherlock licked his lips and dove down for another kiss, but was stopped by his friend putting a finger against his mouth and pushing him back.

"What?"

"I, ehm…I love you, too, Sherlock. I always have."

"I know."

"Of course you do, you git. Now kiss me before your smartarse gets you in trouble."

The detective had no qualms about complying.


End file.
